


The Brownstone

by Kytt



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: AU, Friendship, Graphic sexual descriptions, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-07 12:37:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kytt/pseuds/Kytt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all began with the brownstone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU based on the movie 'The Lakehouse'
> 
> Since I have yet to find a willing beta, all errors, omissions or typos are my own.
> 
> Suggestions, criticisms and critiques are ever welcome.

It all began with the brownstone.

Built sometime in the early 1900, when it was the rage for those who could, to ‘keep homes in the city’, the brownstone was small enough, that it was believed to have been a 'servants home' housing staff for one of the larger, nearby mansions, long since torn, or fallen down. The brownstone came complete with a small back garden, that had been allowed to deteriorate into little more than a patch of dried-out dirt that even the neighborhood cats avoided in their nightly prowls, and an equally small, though private drive, which in turn led into a postage-stamp sized garage.

The well maintained first floor consisted of spacious living space – with functioning fireplace – a cavernous, formal dining room – though really it was anyone's guess why servants would require such a thing - a considerably less formal, and therefore significantly more used breakfast nook and modern kitchen. The second floor although once having housed several bedrooms had been converted at one time or another into a library, and built-in bookshelves ran the full height of the 13’ ceilings. Now sadly bereft of books, the shelves stood empty, watching the dust motes flirt with the occasional sun-bean in hopeful silence. The third, and top floor consisted of a lavishly appointed master bath – complete with an enormous claw-foot tub, and an equally spacious master bedroom, which also sported a second fireplace.

The previous owners had either sufficient foresight, or else lacking in sufficient funds, resisted the urge, so common through-out the 70’s to replace the original hardwood floors with broadloom, and the afternoon light reflecting off the gleaming oak lent the brownstone a richness it no longer truly deserved.

The brownstone’s partially walled-off roof, once home to a lovingly maintained garden, was now just as run down as its street-level twin, which was just as well, since anyone enjoying the roof space would no longer see their neighbors, equally, lovingly appointed roof-top gardens, but the glass and steel monstrosities which surrounded the little brownstone on three sides, built as close as city boundaries would allow. The grand-son, or possibly great-grand-son of the original owner, or so the story goes, had died intestate – leaving no will – and his few surviving, distant family members fought bitterly, tying up the once lucrative property in court, while the towers grew around it. Years later, when the matter was finally settled, and the lawyer’s vast fees were paid off, the survivors discovered that the developments had carried on without their little brownstone, building instead around it, leaving it standing on its own little island of history.

In an attempt to recoup some of his losses, one particularly clever nephew applied – and much to his surprise – received a grant from the city, for the continual maintenance of the brownstone as a historic landmark. He was permitted to rent, if not outright sell the property, under the condition that no further renovations, or modernizations, other than what had already been completed, would take place either outside or within.

Suffice it to say, there were few tenants interested in taking possession of however a spacious, one-bedroom home boasting questionable privacy, even if it were located near the very heart of the city, and as a result, the little brownstone stood vacant for a goodly number of years. Forgotten by history and progress both.

It went without saying that contrary to his realtor's assertions Tony Stark fell in love with the little oddity it the moment he laid eyes on it.

The lease was signed less than a week later, and though the brownstone would not officially be 'his' for another two weeks, Tony was taking advantage of carefully pacing off what would soon become the latest location of his workshop – provided that suitable floor coverings could be located, or manufactured. The remainder of his belongings were even now being carefully packed by an efficient army of faceless movers, and would be arriving near the end of the month.

Thus it came as somewhat of a surprise, when in the perfect silence of the house he heard the unmistakable sound of mail, being pushed through the brass slot in the front door.

Though curiosity drove him downstairs to see what had been pushed through the mailbox, Tony's initial reaction was to immediately treat this likely piece of junk-mail as he did all the other pieces of junk-mail, which was to dump or now having the convenient use of a fireplace, burn the thing. However the unexpected texture of the the cream-coloured, velum envelope gave him pause. The address line seemed to be actually hand-written, in a rather vibrant shade of green ink – a nearly un-heard of extravagance in this modern, computerized age - with an elegant, strong hand, with, on careful inspection, what appeared to be a fountain pen. Curiosity, not for the first time, getting the better of him – even if the thing did turn out to be junk mail, what ever product the sender was selling deserved at least a cursory glance for the trouble the vendor had gone through.

Breaking open the wax seal - now who, in the modern age has even heard of such things anymore? Tony carefully pulled out the folded piece of paper within. The letter was written on the identical velum stock, in the same strongly-drawn hand and green ink, in a shade that could only be described as 'poisonous'.

"Dear New Resident,"

The letter began,

"I would be significantly in your debt, should you be so kind, as to forward any mail addressed to me, that might filter its way through the fault-ridden postal system, to your front door. Although I have registered the appropriate change of address with the local post-master, and have been repeatedly assured that it will take effect with all expediency, such services have in the past proven themselves notoriously unreliable, and I have no wish as to be remiss in any of my ongoing correspondence due to the ineptitude of the letter carriers.

I hope,"

the letter went on to say, 

"to one day be in position to return the favour,"

"Most gratefully,  
Loki Odinsson

PS The gardener who comes by every Thursday to look after the roses has – unless you have already changed the locks – his own key. And the cat, who is not mine, but is his own, is notoriously fond of bacon, and will not hesitate to steal it should you leave some unattended on your plate. Consider yourself forewarned on both accounts.  
L."

Enclosed with the letter was a white business card bearing the name Loki Odinsson and a local address. Stamped on the back of the card, was a clever, green initial made up of the initials 'L' and 'O', which on secondary inspection matched the stamp imprinted into the wax seal.

Feeling somewhat bemused, and having, at least for the moment, at least until his tools arrived, nothing better to do, and since the day conveniently happened to be Thursday, Tony wandered upstairs, and outside. There he leaned on the wall of the dilapidated patio, looking down on the empty patch of dirt, that bore about as much resemblance to a rose garden as the parking lot seveal streets over, wondering briefly if perhaps the letter and the mention of roses was someone's idea of a cruel, and not particularly tasteful joke. Except that... except that.. 

Without even realizing it, Tony began to trace the elaborate pen strokes with the tip of his finger. If it was a joke, someone had gone through a considerable bit of trouble, and was foolish enough to provide him with an address.

Hunting down a pen was a matter of moments. Finding a scrap of paper took significantly longer. Even as he wrote, Tony idly began to wonder how long it had been since he had written – rather than typed, dictated or otherwise electronically produced a letter.

"Dear Mr. Odinsson,"

Tony began,

"While I am grateful for your forewarning of both the invading gardener and the thieving cat, regretfully, they have both been for naught, since it is now half-way through Thursday, and neither, has as yet shown up. In fact, judging by the state of both the rooftop and the main-floor garden, I must wonder if this is in fact the first such Thursday that the gardener has failed to show.."

At this point Tony's scribbles were interrupted by a plaintive sort of mewling coming from the front door. With eyebrow raised more out of habit than from an expectation of appreciative audience, the engineer ran back down the stairs to investigate the noise. On opening the door he found a scrawny, adolescent and clearly half-starved black kitten. 

'*You* must be the gardener,' Tony observed. 'I'm afraid that you're a bit late, you see. The roses, that you were to care for, seem to have all died already. Perhaps you could return next week?'

Unconcerned, the kitten looked up at Tony with wide-set emerald green eyes, blinked once, butted his head against the engineer's calf and wound his slinky way through his legs and into the rest of the house, with a confidence that only cats can attain, straggly tail held proudly high.

With a bemused shrug Tony closed the door and returned to his letter.

"Reynard has just shown up, no doubt to look after the non-existent roses, or possibly to collect his bacon - which is also as yet, non-existent, being that my fridge is as barren as both gardens. Perhaps if I were to bribe him with said bacon, he might be persuaded to produce the roses which you claim he is here to maintain.

Rest assured however, that roses or no, in the unlikely event that any of your correspondence does find its way to my door, I would be delighted to forward it on to you, so that none of your correspondents are robbed of so charming a correspondent."

Realizing suddenly that he had written himself into a corner, lacking the immediate assistance of a thesaurus at his fingertips, Tony wisely choose discretion as the better path of valor, stopped trying to be overtly clever and brought the letter to a quick, if painful end.

"Regards,  
Tony Stark"

Another plaintive mewl sounded from the direction of the kitchen, and Tony added a final line with a chuckle.

"Reynard also sends his best."

 

(TBC)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the unlikeliest of correspondences continues

When Tony returned home several hours later, armed with groceries sufficient to last him until the delivery service was up and running, cat litter, a box to put it into and several kinds of cat food – in spite of Loki’s assurances that ‘Reynard’ could happily subside on nothing but bacon, Tony chose to follow the advice of the helpful clerk at the pet store – he was greeted by a sleepy kitten, and a second velum envelope, this time addressed to ‘Mr. Stark’.

Both envelope and kitten waited with varied degrees of patience, as Tony deliberately put away the groceries, filled box with litter, set out a selection of bowls filled with a variety of, what he had been told were both nutritious and delicious foods, suitable for the healthy development of a young cat, only pouring himself a glass of wine, and sprawled in the middle of the living room, envelope and notepad in hand.

The moment he cracked open the wax seal, the rich, heady scent of roses filled the air, and Tony’s hands filled with a rainbow of dried petals, crumbling even as they left his fingers dusted with intoxicating aroma. From lightest of blushing pinks, to a deep burgundy, so dark it bordered on black. The engineer closed his eyes, inhaling memories with the fragrance, coming home with armfuls of roses and laughter and.. and.. 

The rustling of the envelope falling from his slack fingers breaks his reverie, loss slamming into him, like the slamming of a door, all over again. Inhaling deeply – breathe Tony, breathe.. he reminds himself and gulps his wine, displaying a complete lack of appreciation for the skill of Australian vintners. Picking the envelope back up off the floor, he pulls out the folded velum, allowing a second, lighter, piece of paper – at a glance a magazine clipping, which he lets lie for now - slow smile spreading across his face reading the opening lines.

“Dear Delusional Mr. Stark,”

the letter begins, the elegance of the green script in sharp counterpoint to the challenging words,

“The gardener’s name is Gaston, though he prefers, if he has not already mentioned to you, the more Americanized ‘Tony’. He tells me that his parents had named him for obscure French actor from the silent film era, as opposed to that horrendous Disney film so popular in the year of his birth. He has given me little reason to doubt him otherwise, so I chose to believe him in this as well.

I can only assume therefore that you have named Reynard’ - which I will admit suits him somewhat better than the 'Phelix' I had initially dubbed him with, having as he does, a certain foxiness about him,”

‘Foxiness huh?’ Tony asks the kitten, who blinked at him lazily, before returning to his nearly empty bowl.

“In either case, you may as well be calling the cat ‘Tony’ for all the added chaos a third Tony, on however a temporary basis in your home, for all the good that it will do you – being after all a cat, and notorious in both pride and independence - and like to answer to either name should you chance to call. Unless, as I have previously mentioned you are armed with bacon.”

Tony pauses again, reading, glancing over at the 'proud and independent' cat now lazily cleaning his whiskers in a patch of sunlight, looking not at all inclined to be anywhere but in the middle of Tony's as yet unfurnished living room. 

“As for your previous assertions against my non-existent – though I suppose now your - roses, I am enormously pleased to provide proof of their substantiated existence, in as much as anything can be proven to exist in our intangible world, thus, for the moment, or at least until such time as their existence can be of unquestionable certainty disproven, thus proving you, ultimately wrong.

They had really managed to capture a good side of the house, and mine apparently as well, wouldn't you agree?

I hope you will not hold this against me when in future forwarding my still outstanding correspondence.

With future thanks,  
Loki Odinsson

PS Please give ‘Reynard’ a scratch behind the ears for me, and bid him well. 

It takes Tony several moments to catch his breath. He can't remember the last time that he laughed so hard, at something so utterly ludicrous as the endlessly run-on sentence, and wonders briefly to himself if Loki speaks the way he writes, with conversations built of labyrinths, jumping to and from subject to subject, attempting to lose his audience along the way.

Still smiling he picks up the clipping fallen to the floor, on it a collage of photos, clearly taken in and around the brownstone, though likely some time ago, when the gardens were still gardens and not just barren patches of dirt.

The largest photo, taking up most of the page, around which the article had clearly been written, taken likely from a neighboring balcony, or possibly even a roof, captured not only the glorious, riotous bloom of the back garden, but the rooftop as well. A frantic, gorgeous splash of colour that leapt forth from the page. In a smaller photo, a dark-haired, smiling young man, leaning casually on the railing at the front of the brownstone, the brightness of his smile highlighting his olive complexion, dressed casually in denim overalls over a white t-shirt. A pair of garden gloves and snips in one hand, a bouquet of white roses - matching the shirt and smile – held lovingly in the other. 

This must be the missing Gaston, Tony muses to himself, unable to resist Gaston's open smile, the invisible gardener looking after non-existant roses.

The third, and smallest photograph, taken in the library, where roses spill out from vases crammed into every available space not already overflowing with books. Rather than any sort formal or structured seating, a mis-mash of overstuffed leather arm chairs have been scattered here and there, occasionally partnered with a small table or desk, with more books piled on, or beside them. Yet somehow, it works. There is an energy, a brightness to the shot, that owing to more than just the roses and the clutter. Invariably however, the eye is drawn to the stillness of a shadowed corner, where a solitary figure stands by a shelf, all his attention seemingly focused on the book held lightly in one well-formed hand. The photographer had captured a private moment, a secretive, small smile not meant for the camera, but for pages of the book. For the instant, the viewer is allowed to gaze, drink in not just only the man's obvious, long-limbed beauty, with his dark curtain of hair falling past the collar of his shirt, unbuttoned just enough to give a tantalizing hint in the clean lines of neck and collarbone, but the surprising realization that this quiet immobility is a temporary measure at best. Any moment now he’ll look up, turning the full power of the smile now tugging at the corners of his lips to the audience, take a step forward and.. and

The engineer feels he is intruding, running his fingers repeatedly over the small image, skin suddently too tight with wanting.. wanting what? A man he’s never, and will likely never meet? A model hired for the shoot, trained to provoke this very reaction – even in the simplicity of white shirt and black pants. Some out of work actor, or poet perhaps, brought in to add to the romance of Gaston’s roses.

"They had really managed to capture a good side of the house, and mine apparently as well, wouldn't you agree?" 

Tony feels his mouth run dry, desperately flipping the image over, there yes.. the listing of the photos.. yes the house, and Gaston and standing in front of it, just as he guessed.. 20 year old botany major.. not just a gardener after all, though he supposes he should have guessed that Loki would not have anyone so.. ordinary near him. And there, yes.. ‘Professor Loki Odinsson, photographed in his library, September 6, 2014’

Professor?.. the man is a Professor? wait.. 20what? Tony re-reads the clip, rubs his eyes, sure he'd mis-read.. it didn't.. it couldn't. 

The text does not change. 2014. The clip, the roses.. Loki.. an unfathomable, unreachable distance of two impossible years away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I thank my patient and supportive readers. Without you, there would be no world.


	3. Chapter 3

They say that to see a person within the first moments of waking, is to find them at their most honest self.

Whom ever made this most preposterous comment, has clearly never had the pleasure of seeing, or waking - either with or beside - Professor Loki Odinsson. No single moment exists between sleep and consciousness. No forewarning motion or change of breath, no stretch, yawn or mumble. A former lover once permitted to stay the night, had teasingly compared Loki to a large cat, coyly perhaps hoping to be once-more pounced on, in return for the faint compliment. Regretfully for them, shortly after pouncing, the strained line of naked back, suggested to Loki a possible solution for a problem left too long on his board. Leaving in turn his lover, not only bound and gagged – something that they would not have, under the circumstances, likely objected to – but also abandoned and otherwise forgotten for the next 6 hours in Loki’s empty bed. Not quite the pouncing they had been expecting. 

A cat then is Loki, jungle or otherwise, inclined to play with his meal before consuming it. A silent predator, relying on surprise, rarely wasting energy where patience will do. Infinitely, elaborately graceful, Loki's movements are deceptively, deliberately slow. Lengthy silences are frequently permitted to stretch in the few, purely social conversations Loki allows himself, jagged pitfalls left for unsuspecting speakers to fall into, betraying themselves as fools or liars. Loki has no patience for the former, even less for the latter, being quite the accomplished liar himself. After all, he's managed to convince everyone - himself included – of the happiness in his current situation.

Loki has a leopard's eyes. Pale and jade green, peering lazily from under sooty lashes - too long for a man, he'd once been told by a spurned admirer. The laziness is deceptive, as are most things about Loki – a sharp, disgusted glance from those eyes has sent many a first year and not a few post-grads running from his lecture halls in tears, only to spend the next few nights sighing, sleepless in their own beds, imagining no doubt a very different sort of outcome. 

Loki sleeps naked, tumbled amongst Egyptian, cotton sheets. Wrapped in the dark green of Russian malachite, the clean, faultless lines of Loki's form could be a study in marble, assuming ofcourse that the artist could ever tear themselves away from wanting, long enough to sculpt. It might even amuse Loki, however briefly, to learn that it is a subject of some debate amongst the members of the faculty, if the university’s youngest, hedonistic professor sleeps on silk or satin sheets. Loki could tell them, that after having tried both, he far prefers the cool comforts of cotton, to the slippery uncertainty of either satin or silk. 

A guarded creature is Loki. Rare are the moments that he permits himself to open to another, growing fewer still as the years pass by. Convinced, well.. begged for rather, by his genius gardener – few things does Loki admire so much as genius in any form – to allow his house and home be invaded by the staff of ‘Modern Spaces’, with the clear understanding that at no time would any of the fluttering little photographers attempt or insist that he, Loki, be a part of the photos, and, more importantly, the entirety of the not inconsiderable fee go towards paying for Gaston’s tuition – it being no secret that the reason the young man was working as a gardener in the first place, while attending the university on a full-time basis, was that his family of blue-collar construction workers wholeheartedly supportive of his dream, could not afford to support him financially. Being the genius that he was, Gaston (Tony, he would remind Loki later gently) readily agreed, and even managed to save a photographer’s camera when Loki realized that he had been captured on film in spite of his very clear instructions. Eventually, on seeing the photo he relented, unbending even so far as to allow the photo to be used in the magazine itself – not without a certain well deserved pride is Loki – much to the magazine’s and ultimately Gaston’s (Tony’s) gratitude. Particularly when, following Gaston’s dark allusions concerning the breech of contracts and invasions of privacy, the magazine expressed their gratitude in more financial means, Not utterly without mercy is Loki.

A creature of cold fact is Loki. Raised by a family of business moguls, intended to one day help ‘rule his father’s kingdom’ as his brother’s faithful right hand, Loki rebelled from an early age, angrily turning instead to science. Anatomy, biology, chemistry. Eventually, ultimately theoretical physics. What began as a childish protest against a pre-determined future became a life’s obsession. For he would learn how the universe was made. And with a 16 year old boy’s righteous anger take it apart.

‘Dear Mr. Odinsson,'

He starts to smile, the strong, straight pen strokes, drafted, rather than drawn, on blue-lined note paper, lightning his mood as little has of late. Much to his surprise he has begun the last few days to actuallly look forward to these brief, meaningless letters, far more than they might actually deserve, especially considering his other many pieces of correspondence.

'I’m not sure if I should be more impressed or distressed by the effort necessary to pull a prank of this caliber. I will for the moment forgo being insulted, though given how much you must know of me, you'll it’s a particularly cruel joke you've played on me. You must have spent quite a few hours digging through archives to dig up those photos of the gardens. The rose petals, I will admit were a nice touch.

Tell me, how did you know about the cat? 

Tony Stark

PS Who ever ran your little photo-shop experiment screwed up, and if you haven’t already, I really wouldn’t bother paying him – the year is 2012. Not 2014.'

Not above cruelty is Loki. Casual or well planned, calculated, cherished and thoroughly thought-out, but this accusation, from a man he's never met, to whom he owes nothing.. touches.. brushes.. perhaps because he has named a cat that Loki was once fond of, or because he is currently occupying the house that Loki had permitted himself, however briefly to love.

With little thought for consequence - paradox be damned! - he pads barefooted to his desk, and dipping pen in ink - yes, his letters are old-fashioned, good penmanship, like manners, his mother taught him is the gift of kings. No king is Loki, but for her he would use a nib and old-fashioned ink - and begins to write.

'Dear Disbelieving Mr. Stark,

The year is 2014. I can prove it.'

 

(TBC)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now would be the time when I apologize for my singular lack of knowledge on anything even vaguely resembling theoretical physics, growing roses or cyber-engineering. Everything I know I have learned from 'google', and other similarly questionable sources.
> 
> The faults within remain my own, as I am still without a willing victim.. err.. beta.


	4. Chapter 4

Snow.. Tony whispers with more than a little wonder in his voice, watching in amazement as his rooftop, driveway and surrounding streets are slowly covered in a glistening white blanket. In September, no less? Who knew? He mutters.

A short while earlier, Reynard had come out to investigate what may have possibly been his first snowfall, but after a few tentative steps decided that the cold, wet, not-cotton was not at all, in fact to his liking, and was now curled up on the bench by the window, watching Tony with intent green eyes.  
'So', he writes, pad balanced precariously on one knee, pausing now and again to pet Reynard, who periodically bats his pen, with feline selfishness, demanding attention. Hesitantly now, having uncovered the greater truth behind his amazing correspondence. 'What happens now? Should I ask you about world events, the next winning lottery ticket, or who'll win the world series? I seem to recall though there being 'rules' about such things.’

'I am unfamiliar with the 'rules' of which you speak,' comes Loki's reply a short time later, an envelope pushed through the door by an unseen hand, 'but I would remind you of an old fable, and a merchant's servant who surprised encountering Death, by encountering Her in Baghdad... Even were I tell you of world events, or the possible numbers for winning the lottery, it's wholly possible that not only would you not benefit by my sage advice, but would in fact suffer by it.

I will tell you however, that contrary to the Mayan's best predictions, the world did not end in December. At least not thus far.”

Tony chuckles, surprised at recalling the fable, his childhood having contained few, if any such imaginary, un-necessary things. No doubt some nursemaid or nanny told it as a bed-time tale, and somehow.. it stuck.

“Very well then,' he asks 'If you will not tell me of the future, will you tell me of yourself? You are a Professor I see, what and where do you teach? Let me guess – literature, philosophy or art? Where are you now residing? Have you replaced Reynard in your feline affections, or have you gotten yourself a dog?”

Two years, and several kilometers away Loki is staring blank page, finding himself for a moment speechless. No one has asked him of himself in a long while – those who know him well enough to ask have long ago learned not to, and those who do not.. Nothing about Loki invites a personal inquisitiveness. Even the parade of random bodies that occasionally fill his bed and nights, quickly catch on to the cold distance, gladly accepting instead, the somewhat less personal, if considerably more pleasurable attention of his hands and mouth, in lieu of personal detail.

“In fact,” Loki finally writes, clutching on to the least personal topic of those offered “my doctorate is in Theoretical Physics, though I’ll admit” he admits, and surprises himself with the admission “that your misconception is not a singular one. Apparently it’s a common misconception that only those that *teach* a language, are permitted its proper use.

I do give lectures occasionally, though I cannot, with unquestionable honesty say that I ‘teach’ since there is very little guarantee that the collection of brainless cabbages daring to call themselves my ‘pupils’ absorb an enth of what I tell them.

I now reside,” Loki names a somewhat more modest address, a loft without roses, but one closer to the university, thus alleviating the daily aggravating commute. This he explains to Tony, still wondering at the explanation that none of his other of regular correspondents – physicists – both astral and theoretical – artists, writers, several poets, and a singular actress who had long since left the lime-light, but who’s work he had admired, and expressed so in his typical, elegantly written form, surprised when the actress responded in kind, starting a correspondence which lasted for years, unto her death several years prior – have ever received.

“I do not have a dog. Or cat for that matter. Reynard was a pleasant surprise, a friend, rather than pet. Besides which, I have never been a dog person.

And what of yourself? What do you with your time, when you are not responding to letters written by the delusional owners of non-existent roses?” Loki asks, and finds himself quite interested in the answer.

“I am an engineer.” Writes Tony. “Robotics and cybernetics for the most part. I’m working on developing replacement limbs for those that lost them. Eventually organs. It’s hardest on kids you know – they’re brave, running around with those plastic hooks and things, but you just know they’d rather be like everyone else. I hope to one day give them that. And in the meantime, I tinker.”

“You are a good man Tony Stark,” responds Loki “I am grateful to the slip in time which has made this acquaintance possible.”

Days turn into weeks. Weeks into month. Casual conversation grows, friendship develops however grudgingly. Loki allows himself to begin looking forward to Tony’s nightly notes, trusting that one will be there when he arrives home, or wakes in the morning. Tough he has never seen him, the engineer has become real more real than the unmemorable string of partners that have faded from his bed and life. Sleeping with blue-lined note pages under his pillow, Loki allows himself to dream.

They discuss poetry and movies, theoretical physics and computer generated schematics of a little girl’s metallic arm. They speak of nothing personal. They do not talk about a possibility of meeting. Neither asks the other if there is anyone else. A special someone that fills their lives, touches them as the other cannot.

“What’s happened,” Tony asks one evening, when Loki’s penmanship is less than it’s perfect self. “Something.. something happened to you? Are you alright?”

“I’m well,” Loki replies after a while, amused, amazed that this man should know him so well without having ever met him “there was a fire.. an explosion in one of the labs. Some students were hurt. A man.. a man I didn’t know died. I could.. there was nothing that I could do. I wasn’t even there. I was supposed be – but I’d been detained.. the man – it could have been me.”

“I’m sorry Loki. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m not there to help… I’m sorry I’m not there to hold you.”

Loki spends a long time staring at the words scribbled in haste on the page.

“Tony,” he finally writes “take a bath with me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With many thanks to those that are still here, and appologies for for the slightly 'scrambled' previous text.. hopefully all is better now.


	5. Chapter 5

Tony can’t remember the last time he sat in a bath. Well he can, but it involves.. it involves memories he’d rather not think about, especially not now, glass of wine in one hand, heavy vellum in the other.

“You know,’ he quips, trying to keep the conversation light, not quite certain he’s ready to face what-ever it is that this *this* was turning into “if you wanted to get me naked, all you had to do was ask.’

He can feel Loki’s answering chuckle in the bubbles bursting across his chest.

“Ahh but I did ask…’ the green ink taunts ’and I suspect you agreed? With little hesitation at that? The truth is you offered to hold me, and baths have a... special place in my heart.’ Loki pauses in writing. He’s sharing again. Giving too much away, and unable to stop. “My mother used to put me into a bath when ever I was sad.. or upset.” Which happened a lot, now that he thinks of it, but doesn’t write “ Or just.. bored. She’d fill the tub with bubbles and read me books – poetry, literature, history. Baths have become my… special place.”

“You never talk about your family,” Tony observes cautiously. “I’d sort of thought you were an orphan. Like me.” He ads quickly, hoping that rather than running from the sudden personal exchange, Loki will accept it for the rare gift it is, offering something of himself in return.

“No, my family are all still very much alive. Much to my frequent regret – particularly when the inevitable invitations for holidays and birthdays arrive, and I must contrive new excuses of why I absolutely cannot attend.” A splatter of ink on the otherwise perfect page – Loki pressing down hard enough to scratch the velum’s surface, nearly breaking nib in the process. “I am sorry however to hear of the loss of yours. Was it recent?”

“No,” Tony pokes at the old pain, surprised to find it worn down to a dull ache, rather than the familiar roar that it was. Perhaps it’s only Loki’s presence, however tenuous, keeping at bay “My father passed died nearly 20 years ago, and my mother passed away when I was very young. I barely remember her, outside of photographs, and oddly the scent of lilies. She loved lilies.. I can’t remember her face, but I remember the scent of lilies.. I guess it could have been her perfume, but there is nothing similar. I know, I’ve looked.

You’re fortunate to still have your family, however much you may want to avoid them.”

Loki frowns. He does not appreciate being told what he should and should not be, and what does this man know of him anyway. “Contrary to popular belief, scent is the sense tied closest to our memories. No doubt it’s linked to our instincts from when we were still apes, living in the jungle, running away from things that would eat us, given half the chance

You would not say that of my family if you knew them.” He finally writes.

“Then tell me about them – it’s not like I’m going anywhere?”

“They are.. they are..” Loki ponders his family, attempts to quantify, reduce them to a handful of words on paper. Thor, their, *his* parents, Loki corrects himself mentally.. how does one explain the majesty, the undefinable, undeniable, formidable presence that is his Father, one eyed rogue that he is? Self-made, self-defined man. Raised up from nothing, built a company, an empire. Rumours circulating in his wake, about the loss of his eye – He lost it on safari in Africa. On a bet with the Chinese Tong. Donated it so that a blind man could see. His Father will never tell, the single, remaining blue eye glinting wickedly enough for two.

How does one describe Mother? The strong, intense, elegant, woman that could have done, been *anything*, but chose to spend her life at Father’s side, raising his sons, entertaining clients and guests, calming Father’s temper during his few, famous rages. The gentle touch of her hand, the warmth of her smile, that to Loki would always mean ‘home’. The unquestionable love the like of which he’s not encountered since, or likely ever will.

And Thor.. dear, darling, daunting brother Thor. Golden, gorgeous, brilliant in his own right, Father’s right hand, groomed to take over the empire, insistently, incessantly professing undying brotherly love. Thor with his roomful of sportsmanship trophies – each week a new one, proudly displayed, while Loki’s own scholastic achievements were less than casually remarked upon. Put on a back shelf somewhere and allowed to gather dust. It was not that Loki was incapable of bringing home similar awards – he won, with startling regularity any track and field competitions he felt like entering that day. His archery was superior even to the instructors brought in to teach the class. It was not a lack of skill, he simply had no interest in wasting his afternoon sweating in the company of Thor’s fellow Neanderthals, when there was an empty lab or library that he could spending his time in instead. Even prior to graduation his papers were regularly published along-side leaders of the scientific community and regular invitations from Harvard and Stanford began to pour in as time came closer to when he would finally chose a school… but at the end it was all about Thor. And then he found out why.. 

“Why?” Tony writes. And Loki realizes that he was writing even as he was musing and now Tony knows all about his messed up family and childhood and he’ll leave because really why would anyone in their right mind want to spend any time with a skinny little science nerd when they could be with great, golden, hulking Thor.

But Tony is waiting. Loki can feel him wait.. even two years, and kilometers away he can feel the reassuring weight of Tony’s patience, in the slowly cooling water. And it’s harder than he thought it would be to *not* tell him.

“When I was 16, my family and I were skiing in Vermont.” He can see it like it was yesterday. The snow, his parents smiling at one another – still so much in love, even after all the years. The red-gold of his Mother’s hair pulling loose from her heavy braids. “ Skiing was one of the few activities that I could surpass Thor at, and I took every opportunity I to do so.” Or at least he used to.. once. When he still cared.

“There was his one ‘Black’ run.. it was.. vicious. Brutal. Dangerous. Grown men wouldn’t take it, but I was 16, and my brother was there with some girl, showing off, as usual, so of course I had to prove a point.

I ended up only breaking my arm. I was fortunate that it was only my arm. Because we were in Vermont, and don’t travel with a full medical work-up, the doctors had to run all the tests from scratch. Blood-type, allergies, the works.” Loki swallows, it hurts this memory . Twenty years and it hasn’t gotten better. Still sharp as the day it was made. “The doctor, intern really, who was setting my arm.. I think.. I think she was trying to cheer me up, distract me. She thought I was afraid, when really, I was merely bored. She asked me about my blood-type, commenting on how rare it was – I’d known about my blood already of course. There was a school project some time ago, we had to type ourselves and our immediate family. I’d mentioned that to the intern, I was being polite.. Mother always said that courtesy was the gift of kings. And then she, the intern asked which of my parents was my types, and when I said – neither.. she.. she… she left very quickly. Without speaking.

I had my laptop. I had access to the ‘net. I’d never thought to question it before – my blood was just another oddity. Just another way in which I was different from my family. From Thor.. I had no idea that the type was *genetic*. For me to have had it, *one of my parents* had to have the same blood, and they did not.

They admitted it eventually.. Father raged, and threatened to sue the hospital. He wanted the intern fired, but really it wasn’t her fault, and it explained such a great deal. Why I was different. Why I never quite felt like I belonged.. I didn’t. They’d adopted me. Via some ‘special’ arrangement my Father never bothered to explain, much like his eye. I’d searched of course, but my Father is quite skilled at covering his tracks – far more apparently than I was at digging them up. Eventually, I gave up searching.”

Tony feels the water grow cold around him as he reads the details of Loki’s life. The bitterness and anger leaps from the page. Gingerly he brushes water-coarsened fingers across the smooth paper, absorbing the pain with the green stains of ink. Pain is something he is familiar with, old pain, new pain, all running together like so much spilled green ink. 

He realizes he has to be very very careful here. Too much and Loki will run, hiding, retreating back into politely worded nothingness. Not enough, and.. he doesn’t want to consider the possibility of not enough. Of *not* having this prickly, opinionated, impatient, brilliant man in his life.

“At least yours cared enough to yell.” He finally writes. “My father only noticed I was still around when I broke something – or someone. Me, someone else, didn’t matter after a while. I was the consummate disappointment. I got into MIT on full scholarship at 18 and all he said was why it had taken so long. But we were never, what you might call.. close. Old fool died and left me this video, telling me how much I mattered to him. A lot of good that did me, now that he was dead.

So. Now that we’ve established that our family lives pretty much suck. Lets talk about something else. Someone else. Someone.. anyone.. special in your life?” He dreads the answer.

“No.” A single word, and it comes too quickly to be completely honest. Tony is slowly growing skills at spotting Loki’s cleverly worded lies. “You?”

“No… not anymore. There was.. someone. But she.. she left. I had.. there was an accident and I.. I wasn’t OK for a long while after, and she left.”

“Tell me about it? The accident.” Loki clarifies – like Tony he hypocritically has no patience for people that leave.

“I… I was working on a project – a fairly progressive one. I was in a different line of engineering at the time. There was.. there was an explosion. My heart was.. damaged. Permanently. I’d had some.. bad habits back then and the doctors said that I was too high a risk for a transplant. That they wouldn’t ‘waste’ a heart on me. “ self-consciously Tony brushes the old scar crossing his chest. “So. I built one for myself. A mechanical one. It should only outlast me by at least a good 100 years.” 

The lines spiral with Loki’s laughter. “A regular ‘Tin Man’ you are! Oh my God.. you’re *Tin Man*. It was you. Why didn’t you tell me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder if anyone, who does not publicly write realizes just how much the positive feedback from readers/fellow writers mean to those who do?
> 
> Well I do now.... and to me it means a huge, great, cotton-candy deal.
> 
> That you are here, means you've made it through 5 whole chapters of my scribbles, and for that I am immensely grateful.


	6. Chapter 6

You’re *Tin Man*. It was you. Why didn’t you tell me?

Tony considers Loki’s last words silently. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ What could he have possibly said that would not label him mad? Or worse yet – Loki would have believed and then.. and then.. 

*Six Months Earlier*

‘Tony, Tony, Tony!’ the frustration, affection, concern carries clearly enough through the earpiece, that the engineer can almost see the speaker standing next to him. Which neither inspires nor encourages him to greater agreement. ‘You simply *cannot* continue spending the rest of your life traveling between lab and home. You’re cooped up in that brownstone of yours like some modern-day hermit! Get out! See the world! See your *friends* man.’

Friends, Tony chuckles, friend more like. Rhody. Closest thing to a best friend Tony’s had during his otherwise socially-disorganized, friendless life. One-time business partner. His almost-brother. His almost-best man. His only link to the ‘outside’ world – outside of work and Loki that is.. Tony hasn’t mentioned Loki.. how does one begin to tell one’s best friend that you’re having carrying on a correspondence (affair?) with a man two years in the future? The men with little white suits would not be far behind after that. Poor Tony.. his poor mind finally cracked. What a shame, he showed such promise. So no discussing of Loki then. With Rhody or anyone.. Rhody was saying something and Tony was just not paying attention. In hopes of shutting him up, getting some peace to work on his latest project (write another letter to Loki) he agrees, only realizing too late what he agrees to.

‘So Friday night then? I’ll pick you up, and don’t forget it’s a *costume* party.’

‘Huh?’ Tony asks pointedly, displaying his impressive IQ to full advantage.

‘Party. With costumes.’ Rhody repeats patiently. ‘A quaint custom that people have been practicing for several centuries, give or take, of dressing up and dancing the night away. It’ll be fun. Wear something pretty. I’ll pick you up at 7.’ And hangs up before Tony can change his mind or come up with further poor excuses of why he can’t possibly get away from his lab.

Which is how, and why, at sometime past 7, Tony found himself packed into what 20 years ago might have been called a ‘farm-house’, were it not for the priceless sculptures and paintings hung on the walls, and equally priceless, if substantially less obscuring costumes draped, painted, and what in some cases had to have been glued on, over the gyrating, panting, sweating individuals, occupying every square inch of valuable real-estate in the sprawling mansion. 

Tony downed his drink, looking around, in what he hoped was a casual manner, for a door, as a long-legged, far, *far* too authentic Lady Godiva gracefully slid past him, smiling promises from beneath well-manicured bangs. He had thought himself under-dressed in silver paint and tights, complete with cleverly positioned metal joints and boning – left-overs of his last attempt of building a fully functioning mechanical form. Face and hair stained silver to match, borrowing inspiration from a beloved character, in what Tony was convinced was some director's acid dream trapped on celluloid. Rhody, done up as Pan – complete with goat-legs, and no Tony never ever wanted to find out, what, if in fact anything at all, his friend was wearing under that leather loincloth - vanished into the crowd some hours ago, after once again instructing Tony to 'just have a good time!'. Occasionally he’d spot the curling tips of his horns, or hear the boom of his laughter, as Tony helplessly floundered on his own.

Once upon a time, this was very much his sort of scene. Once, *he* would have been the one sitting at the grand-piano, drink at one hand, blonde on the other, fingers dancing across keys and thigh in equal measure, drawing attention as easily as he drew breath. Life of the party Tony. Another time and another life. *This* Tony just wanted to get outside and maybe get some air untainted with pot and perfume. This Tony just wanted to catch a cab and run home to the safety of his brownstone, and the company of letters written by a man from the future.

Deep in thought, pondering the riddle of how to fit a child, still growing, with permanent cyber-limbs, the inventor finally spots the door leading to the vast patio, gratefully slipping to the relative quiet of the porch.

It was late enough in the year to be dark even at the relatively early hour, and in spite of the lights spilling up from the city, the stars shone brightly enough that the engineer’s breath caught in his throat, looking up at the glory of a night sky. Not paying attention, he stubbed his toe against an unassuming, and out of the way urn, eliciting a loud curse and an answering gasp of surprise from across the patio.

The startled figure stood, unexpectedly tall in the shadows, sending a photograph fluttering from the book in his hands, to land in a patch of light between he and Tony. Reaching, at the same time to pick it up, the engineer brushes the stranger’s fingers, apology dying on his lips, as he find himself face to face with Loki. 

A younger, more ‘open’, green eyes wide and equally startled, slightly embarrassed, dressed in a bizarre collage of brass, green leather and silk, but all the same, living, breathing, and un-mistakenly *here* Loki. The hair is shorter, Tony thinks. Falling softly, it barely brushes the stiff edge of his collar, still longer than most men would comfortably wear, brushed back from that smooth, high forehead and cheekbones sharp enough to cut. 

‘I.. I’m sorry’ Tony finally stutters, realizing that he’s kneeling in the middle of a porch, with a man who was still, essentially a complete stranger ‘I didn’t mean.. I mean I didn’t know..’ grasping for words he glances down at the photo still trapped in his fingers. A young girl, long hair plated in two blonde braids, perhaps 10 years of age, smiling proudly, holding up a framed certificate written in a language sufficiently different from the English and German that Tony is familiar with, that he can’t begin to decipher it. School uniform, a diploma then? Too young. Maybe a diploma for excellent attendance? The engineer catches this in a glance, before realizing then, that Loki too, is desperately, if gently, still attempting to pull the photo loose from Tony’s strong fingers, sighting in gratitude, when finally Tony finally lets go, smoothing it along one long, leather covered thigh.

‘No the fault was entirely my own.’ Loki’s voice is golden. Smooth honey, thick enough to drown in helplessly and gladly. Tony would startle him again, just to hear him speak apologies, and finds himself wondering how it might sound screaming out ecstasies under a lover’s mouth. ‘I was caught up in the book and.. not expecting anyone to be out here. The action is all inside you know,’

'Yes,' Tony chuckles 'I know.. it's why I am out here. But I just came out for some air, and meanwhile you are reading -' he glances down, quickly at the book, frowning, laughing at his lack of surprise in reading the title. Somehow he thinks he should have known. ‘ ‘A Brief History of Time’. Yes.. I can see how that would make for a fascinating enough read, that you would want to escape a party to do so.'

'My daughter mailed me this copy,' Loki bristles, vowels elegant in spite of the, or possibly due to the anger, concealed however politely 'and yes, I do find Stephen's work fascinating, in spite of my contention of how just often it's wrong.'

Could this have possibly gone any worse? Tony thinks to himself. Well done Stark. First person in 10 years you meet that holds any sort of interest and you insult him at first meeting. 'I.. I'm sorry again. I didn't mean to insult... I'll.. I'll.. you were here first and I don't mean to intrude.' He turns, wondering if this is how a condemned man must feel, taking those last steps to a gallows. Watching, feeling his life slip away, when a hand brushes his shoulder.

'No, wait.. please.. Stay. I am the one who should be asking forgiveness for barking so absurdly at a total stranger.' Loki apologizes, sounding like a man unused to asking for anything, much less forgiveness. 'My daughter.. in the letter that she sent with the book she wrote that she could not come see me this year. There is programme she has been accepted to, a great opportunity, great honour, but it requires that she remain in Norway, when she would otherwise be visiting me here... and I cannot believe that I am burdening you with my problems, I am a greater cad than I even initially given you cause to think.' The apologies come tumbling from Loki’s lips, and in them Tony recognizes himself. Words of a man who too rarely speaks with others. Thirst for conversation, like water in a desert, accepting of a mirage in lieu of something real. Tony sighs wishing.. wishing.. 

'She's lovely, your daughter. Is that her in the photograph?' He asks the obvious question instead, just to keep Loki talking.

'Yes. She's just turned 12. Youngest to win the regional science fair in 20 years. Her mother won it last, but she was 14.' Loki's voice full of pride, love, grief for a rarely seen child. 12 then.. not 10 as Tony first thought. Small, slight for her age. And clever then, like her father. 'She lives in Oslo with her mother. We spend a month together each year - or have, up until now. I had thought.. I had hoped.. that I might have a few more years before she stopped coming to see me. And then I thought it would be the love of some young man, and not her' and Tony hears 'our' in Loki's voice' love of science that stole her away from me.'

'Could you not speak with her mother then? Make some arrangements..' Tony offers with the helplessness of a man never having been in this position.  
'No. We were never married, Sigyn and I, and we agreed, after Hel was born that she would have full custody, provided that I could see my daughter when and if she - Hel - was so inclined. I have been as great a part of her life as such distance has allowed. We write regularly, to one another - of late though, I will admit, I have been mostly receiving emails and texts.' He says with some resignation, as if the very mention is offensive to him. 'Most recently she told me to subscribe to something called a 'twitter'

Tony can’t help but laugh, trying to picture this eccentric and unusually old-fashioned man, ‘tweeting’ back and forth with his daughter.

An inky eyebrow arches over an eye the colour of new rose leaves. ‘Something amusing?’

‘No.. it’s just.. I don’t know. Kids..’ Tony offers.

‘You have any of your own?’ Loki asks, half-heartedly, making conversation

‘No.. but I think.. I think I might have wanted some.. if.. if things had been different. Tell me about Hel? What was she like growing up?’

Loki’s face lights with pride, as a father’s is wont to, speaking of his daughter. He spends the next hour telling about his beautiful, brilliant child. Regretful that he was not there for her birth, he tells Tony of how he and Sigyn met – in Helsinki – from which Hel’s name is derived – a conference. He had ofcourse previously heard of Sigyn, though never had the pleasure of meeting her in person, and much to his surprise, found her as appealing and attractive in person, as he did in print. The feeling proved mutual and they spent their free time during the week-long meeting together, rambling through Helsinki’s ancient streets, chasing shots of ice-cold Finnish vodka with wine-soaked herring, pulled straight from iron-bound kegs, or pleasing each other in bed. In pleasure Sigyn lost her quiet, reserved demeanor screaming like a the true Valkyrie she was named for, blonde hair a flying, living banner, as she’d sink her sharp teeth in Loki’s shoulder, nails raking his back, making him arch and scream in turn. This he did not share with Tony, only remembered, some of it showing on his face with remembering, causing Tony’s breath to catch in his throat, hating however briefly, a woman he’d never met.

Ten months after returning to America Loki received a letter, and a photograph of a scrunched up face, waddled in indigo blankets – Sigyn was a staunch believer that children should *not* be colour-coded as so many socks in a drawer, and felt that the deep shade better suited Hel’s light colouring and dark blue eyes. She’d spent the month thinking, Sigyn said, but finally decided that he deserved to know he had a daughter, for all that it took her so long to tell him.

Loki’s face grew, if possible more animated, hands flying as he describes his first meeting with his golden-haired daughter, the indescribable feeling of first holding her in his arms, and knowing that no matter what, regardless of the cost to him, or anyone else, he would do all that the tiny little bundle ever asked of him. Sigyn had no interest in marriage, moving to the States, or having Loki move to Norway, where she made her permanent home, although he proposed all three within moments of holding Hel. She agreed however, that Hel should know her Father, and allowed that Loki could be permitted to come and visit, for a month each year, so long as it did not interfere with Hel’s or for that matter Loki’s studies.

On returning to America, Loki immediately began to write, lengthy, gorgeous, descriptive letters in his elegant, careful hand, telling Hel all about himself, his work and even his side of his family. He held nothing back. There would be, he promised himself no secrets between he and his daughter. He would not make the same mistakes his 'Father' did. His daughter would know all of the family’s skeletons long before she was able to find them for herself. Four years later, her first hesitant replies began to arrive, growing more assured and longer, as her penmanship improved. Hel told her distant, if unquestioningly loving Father of her own interest and fascination with biology and genes. One summer, the two spent the majority of their time working with a series of mice, that Hel was breeding for a specific trait. The mice were less than successful, and thus the following year, she switched to the more intelligent, and longer lived rats. Loki in turn described his own work, amazed, heartened, though not entirely surprised when after a few years she was able to understand, and even question his explanations, her Mother after all, being one of the leading physicists in her field.

Tony permits himself to stare, as Loki speaks, realizing that the small photo he has of him does the man little justice. For all that it captures the beauty, it barely brushes the inner light, the power and flame housed in Loki’s deceptively slender form. The passion pouring out of him is such that in listening, Tony himself falls a little bit in love with Hel, this tiny girl that holds Loki’s heart so firmly in her small hands, and understands the concepts of physics that perhaps a dozen doctorate candidates could otherwise grasp.

He spends a long time staring, even after Loki has ceased talking, not-noticing the silence, like a tangible, living thing stretching between them. Not an uncomfortable silence, but filled with.. Anticipation. Expectation. Want. Eyes open, watching Loki’s pupils grow, until the green is barely visible in the thinnest ring, as he draws close, Tony places the lightest of kisses on the mouth he’d stared at for the past hour, and dreamt of, unknowing, for a year. The gentlest brush of open lips, and pulling back. A blink, a hungry moan, and Loki buries his hands in Tony’s hair, consuming his mouth with his own, tongue pushing deep within, taking. Possessing. Ravaging with need and desperation, pulling back only when Tony cups his face, defusing the rage with in an unbearable gentleness. 

‘I.. I..’ Loki speaks, eyes huge, mouth blood red against the pallor of his skin, and Tony brushes another chaste kiss across his lips, sensing this beautiful, intense man is about to apologize and he can’t allow him to think of what might happen if he does, what *he* might do if Loki apologizes for kissing him and making himself real.. 

‘Shhhhh…. Don’t. Please.. Lets just have this.’ And kisses him again, pouring all of his pain and grief and ten years of loss and need into that one kiss.

‘Yes’.. Loki whispers quietly, when they finally draw back. ‘Yes’ he says again, standing, and taking hold of Tony’s hand, drawing him up with him. Loki brushes his fingers under Tony’s jaw, tracing the tears Tony hadn’t realized were there. The lightest of touches, butterfly, rose petal soft, tracing the path of his fingers with a kiss.

‘Yes….’


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK.. be warned, this is the 'smut' chapter. If you're not into reading this sort of thing, then by all means skip ahead to Chapter 8, which should be forthcoming shortly.
> 
> I will add an archive warning, or tag, or something at the begining of this, just as soon as I figure out how.. I am, (confession time again) a bit of a techno-twinkie when it comes to pretty much anything web related..

‘Yes……’ and with that ‘yes’, he lets Loki draw him upstairs. There were bedrooms there he said, for this very purpose. It was that kind of party, that kind of house. It’s why he, Loki, had gone outside at first, to avoid it all.. the party, the people.

‘Then why?...’ Tony asks, and thinking that he should not be questioning, now here, not... not now when he is close enough to touch. Close enough that he can count the lashes briefly shading the light in Loki’s eyes.

‘A favour’, the other replies, gesturing to himself, encompassing his chest, with one elegant hand. The other is still firmly keeping hold of Tony’s wrist, thumb gently caressing the pulse point, and for a moment Tony doesn’t understand what Loki said. He can't think. He knows that he could come from just the feel of Loki’s hand on his wrist. From the gentle touch that sends lightning, bursting, spiraling through his skin to his very bones. 

‘A favour’ he says again, a little breathlessly this time. It would seem that Tony is not the only one reacting to the pressure of thumb against the delicate flesh of his wrist. ‘For a friend. Well.. friend of a friend really. Her model bailed at the last moment, and I was of the same, approximate size. The costume you see.. it needed to be worn, for her work to be displayed.’ And gestures again. The silk and brass and leather. A costume. Ofcourse, Tony thinks. And Loki says ‘friend’ a bit too casually, and Tony is learning to listen to what remains unsaid in Loki’s words, after months spent reading between the written lines. He doesn’t have many friends, and to do a ‘favour’ that would place him into a situation he is clearly uncomfortable with, and Tony blocks it from his mind. Loki is here *now* and with *him*, and ‘friends’ be damned.

‘Remind me,’ he whispers against the inside of Loki’s wrist, softly kissing the tender flesh, ‘to thank your friend most profusely, for bringing you here tonight.’ Loki’s skin is delicate enough that Tony can follow the flush spreading down from wrist, running up the tall column of his throat, as Loki head tilts back, seeminglly from its own volition, eyes closing, lips parting in a silent gasp, and Tony thinks that he could take him right here, against the wall of the open staircase, surrounded by other slowly writhing bodies. Not since his teenage days, rutting blindly in the back of one of his father’s stolen cars, has he felt such a frantic lack of control. 

He’s not the only one apparently, as Loki’s eyes fly open, and with a growl, he is the one who’s back is pinned against the wall, and Loki is attacking, gnawing desperately at his neck, hands wrapped around Tony’s bare shoulders, holding him back, down. Here. 

Tony wants to let him. Let Loki have… take what he needs, but seclusion is just a few steps, a door away. Burying his hands in Loki’s long hair, he tugs, not gently this time, claiming his mouth with a brutal, biting kiss, that sends a shudder through the taller man, and Loki melts against him, whimpering against his lips.

‘Come on,’ Tony whispers into a delicate ear, running the tip of his tongue along the elegant curve, ‘this will be infinitely better in a bed.. or at least some modicum of privacy. It’s not much further.. ‘ and again takes hold of Loki’s unresisting hand.

The bed in the room beyond is opulent, of massive proportions like everything else in the huge house. At another time Tony may have paused to admire the proportions or made some inappropriate comment about sleeping with giants, but Loki is a twisting, biting, vicious thing, clawing at what little clothes – tights that don’t leave much to the imagination, a few pieces of clever wire and metal – that he wears, pushing him back against the wall with a surprisingly powerful hand. When Tony finally stands bare before him, with a smile that is pure want and wickedness, Loki falls silently to his knees, one graceful hand resting on Tony’s hip, possession, rather than support, swallowing the engineer whole before he can so much as gasp.

Tony is no stranger to sex. Fabulous, inventive, mind-blowing, Kama-Sutra inspired sex. He’s had sex in a dozen different countries, a dozen dozen different ways, but when Loki wraps those pale, luscious lips around his dick, green eyes aglow with barely concealed mischief, the world explodes. A blinding, burning, blood singeing, white light flares behind his eyes, as he feels his body shatter, coming apart and pouring down with the effortless swallows of Loki’s throat.

He’s pulled back together lying on his back in the middle of the grand bed, Loki, still dressed standing over him, licking his lips and admiring his work with an expression that reminds Tony of a cat that's just swallowed some well-fed canary.

‘I… I’m sorry… it’s just.. it’s been… a while…’Tony whispers, a bit breathlessly, watching Loki’s smile grow wider yet. With slow, deliberate, scintilating movements, Loki begins to shed his clothes of silk and leather, baring, inch by tantalizing inch, skin that gleams smooth and pale in the moonlight. Tony gasps now, staring in mouth-watering amazement – bared, clothed in nothing but his glory, full cock engorged and stiff, standing against his stomach, with traces of Tony's silver paint shimmering on lips and cheeks, Loki could be a pagan God, summoned by witches of old, to love and sacrifice at their Sabbath, the Horned King doomed to die for Summer and sunrise.

‘Come here,’ he beckons, watching Loki slither, on hands and knees towards him, predatory gleam in his green eyes, burying his face in the soft joint of neck and collarbone, inhaling deeply. Loki smells of leather and clean sweat and smoke from someone else’s cigarette and expensive cologne and something bright and sharp like ozone after a storm that is identifiably, undeniably, Loki. Tony digs his fingers into Loki’s shoulders, glorifying in the feel of muscles, that tense and relax beneath his hands. Runs a palm down the line of his lover’s back, to the curve of his ass, wondering if this was how Michelangelo had felt when he first set his eyes on the young model that posed for the famous David, and feels rather than hears Loki’s sudden, rugged intake of breath, the whisper against his ear – I want you… please.. . may I have you.. as Loki’s fingers trail down his ribs, slipping in between them, and wrap gently around Tony’s once more interested cock, and all Tony can do is swallow and nod, not trusting his voice to work, breath catching raggedly in his chest and praying to whichever Gods might be listening that his man-made heart holds out the night.

With another razor sharp grin, Loki begins to gently nibble his way down Tony’s chest, pausing momentarily when he comes across the scar running nearly the full length of the engineer’s sternum, but says nothing, other than giving it a slow lick that borders on the obscene, continuing his way down to crease of thigh and hip, pausing occasionally to nip sharply along the way. 

Back arching off the bed, Ton considers if now, would be another good time to remind Loki that it *had* been a while, and everything that this entails when he senses the unmistakable feel of a quicksilver tongue lapping gently at his opening, and wonders again, not for the first time, if perhaps this night, the past year of letter exchanges is some sort of fevered madness, if he hasn’t finally drunk himself into a coma, because clearly this NOT be happening, and then Loki’s tongue slides in and opens him wide and no one’s tongue should be THAT long and when a finger joins it and another and Loki curls them just SO and hits THAT spot and he’s ready.. he’s so ready and Loki rears above him, and in him, relentless as the moving tide, teeth bared in triumph, like the pagan God that he must be because no human could possibly make him come twice in a row so damn quickly, and when Loki dips down biting Tony’s shoulder, marking him, and now he belongs to Loki, and.. and oh.. the stars again, and he’s screaming… screaming and coming and… 

Some time later, with Loki’s head lying firmly on his chest, and Tony running lazy fingers through his silken hair, a rather self-satisfied grin of his own painted quite firmly on his face – turns out he *did* remember some tricks from his Kama-Sutra days, all he needed was a bit of a gentle reminder - and Loki tied, hand and foot to the to the bedpost cried like a fallen angel when Tony took him in turn, the perfection of his alabaster skin now marked with prints from Tony’s hands and mouth. Not that there had been a great deal of objection, the ‘friend’ must be used to sharing, Tony thinks briefly, quickly pushing the thought back the moment it threatens to spoil his mood.

‘What’s this?’ Loki asks finally, after spending the past half-hour idly caressing the line of Tony’s scar. ‘You seem a bit young for a pacemaker? Replacement surgery?’ 

‘You could say that,’ Tony chuckles, capturing Loki’s hand and bringing it to his lips ‘it’s my mechanical heart. I built it, when they wouldn’t give me a real one.’

‘Mechanical heart huh?’ Loki raises an eyebrow quizzically, ‘you really *are* a Tin Man, aren’t you? And here I thought it was just a costume…’ he murmurs into the curve of Tony’s hip, hands already sliding, slipping, and Tony’s head arches back, and it all begins again.. anew…. 

 

*Now*

‘You’re ‘Tin Man’. Why didn’t you tell me…’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, my overwhelmed and sincere thanks to and for the Kudos, comments, hits and just mere presence of 'others' here.
> 
> I didn't realize, when I first started writing this, just how much enjoyment *I* would derive from it, and the fact that I am able to share it with like-minded individuals who actually for some amazing reason like it.. it just.. it blows my ‘OMG’ factor completely out of the water.
> 
> Thank you. I am humbled.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another *very* tiny smut warning, for the first few paragrphs. I really felt that I was done with it in the last chapter, but Tony obviously had other ideas.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’…

Yes.. why didn’t Tony tell this intoxicatingly beautiful man, who for some, unfathomable reason chose to allow Tony into his bed – well not *his* bed, but *a* bed all the same - and possibly his heart, that Tony was actually carrying on an incredible, impossible correspondence, with his future self? 

‘No reason,’ he writes. ‘Other than you would have thought that I was crazy, or worse yet, just coming on to you.’

‘And was I not worth coming on to?’ Loki inquires archly, and having heard that glorious, cultured voice Tony can hear the tease in the tone. Can almost feel Loki’s soft breath against his skin, and no, getting hard and jerking off into his cold bathwater is absolutely *not* an option, although his body clearly has other ideas. His hand slides down through the few remaining bubbles, wrapping firmly around his hardening cock, and Tony imagines a different, slender hand covering his own, remembering how good they felt together, how very *right* they looked, the ivory of Loki’s fair skin, softer than any satin, against the dusk of his late-summer tan. That first initial shock of Loki moving deep inside him, was like coming home. He doesn’t remember feeling ever so… complete. Not even when he was with… Tony pushes the memory of the name, the face, the different shade of pale stretches of skin from his mind. Loki is waiting for a reply, and he is not known to be patient.

‘You were.. you are. Had I a kingdom I would lay it at your feet. Were, that you Salomé, and I King David, I’d bring the heads of prophets to bribe you with, but for a glance, a kiss. I could have spent that night doing nothing but watching you read. That you.. that we… I’m still trying to convince myself that it was not all a dream. That *this* is not a dream. That I’m not lying dead in a gutter someplace, and you’re the last mirage of a short-circuiting brain.’

Loki doesn’t write for a long time. ‘Tony, you are a poet. Such hidden depths, I had no idea. I want to meet you.’

‘You’ve met me.’ Tony replies, deliberately sidestepping the subject. ‘Don’t you remember? There was a party, I was the Tin Man, you were done up in some ridiculous get-up, your ‘friend’ had convinced you to put on. What ever happened to her btw?’

‘It was a friend of a friend and she married my brother. I was invited to the wedding, but was conveniently called away to speak at a conference in Prague. You know perfectly well what I am implying Mr. Stark. Now stop. Stop evading the question. Do you want to meet me or not?’

Tony feels the mechanisms of his heart quickly skip a beat, but it takes less time than the false beating of his metal heart to make the decision. ‘More than anything in the world.’

‘Good then. There is a pretentious, little French restaurant known for their exclusivity and risotto. They also have a fairly passable wine list.’ Loki gives him the name and an address along the pier. ‘Make reservations for tomorrow night. I’ll be there at 8. And Tony, it’s two years for you. I’ll understand if you are not there. If you meet someone else along the way…’

Tony crumples the letter in his hand, holding it close to his chest, realizing what it took for this for the miraculous, mercurial creature at the other end of time to make that kind of admission.

‘Loki… I have *met* my *someone*. There won’t be anyone else. There can’t. Now get some sleep. You’ll need it… I will see you tomorrow.’

‘I’ll see you in two years Tony’.

The following morning Tony drives to the address Loki gave him. Even at 10 in the morning the place is abuzz with activity, fresh cut flowers and live lobster being delivered through the back door. Elegant waiters wrapped in matching uniforms setting tiny tables and tall candles. 

The young hostess looks up at him with a look of polite indifference, the cool of her blue eyes reflecting the cool of her tone, as she asks Tony how she can possibly be of help.

With a quiet chuckle Tony pulls his wallet from the back pocket of his worn jeans. True, in Levis, Black Sabbath T-Shirt - it’s vintage, and he was actually *at* that concert, though the hostess is clearly less than appreciative of that minor fact – and work boots, he doesn’t *quite* look like one of the Pomme D’Or’s regular patrons, but the American Express ‘Black’ grabs her attention quickly enough.

‘How can the Pomme D’Or accommodate you today Mr. Stark?’ she asks in a well-bred tone that immediately makes him think of Loki.

‘I would like to make a reservation,’ he replies. ‘For two,’ the hostess nods approvingly. ‘And I would like it for two years from tonight. At 8 to be precise.’

‘Two years?’ the hostess asks, light brows rising a fraction of a centimeter. 

‘Yes,’ Tony can’t quite bring himself to not chuckle, looking forward to sharing her expression with Loki ‘at 8pm. And could please make sure that there is a bottle of champagne ready for us when we arrive? We’ll be having the risotto.’ He ads helpfully, because well he’s never quite known when to stop.

‘Ofcourse Mr. Stark. The Pomme D’Or will be delighted to welcome you and your guest.’

‘Lovely.’ Tony grins brightly, and walks away whistling. Two years.. only two years more and his life can start again. In the meantime he needs to arrange for a delivery of dirt and locate a botany major by the name of ‘Gaston’… how many of them can there possibly be after all?

That evening Loki dresses with undue care. He’s tempted to wear green, in memory of their one night together, but opts for the simplicity of black and white – black suit, tailored to Hong Kong perfection, white silk shirt. At the last minute he ads on a dash of colour – a pair of malachite cufflinks given to him by his Mother, a remembrance of one of the few Christmas he’d spent with his family, and tucks the bud of a white rose in his lapel.

The restaurant is packed, both with resplendidly garbed patrons and equally well dressed hopefuls, lingering outside in the cool, April air. With an outward air of confidence that came nowhere close to dimming the butterflies in his stomach, Loki approaches the hostess and gives his name, expecting to be seasted.

‘I am sorry Mr. Odinsson, but we have reservation matching that name.’ The hostess is cool, but polite. Loki is well enough dressed, and sufficiently pretty to be a patron, or in the very least the valued guest of one.

‘Hrm..’ he considers a moment ‘Perhaps Stark then? Tony Stark? The reservation would have been made some time ago...’ he suggests, the butterflies within falling, like so many bright, and colourful corpses around a flame.

The hostess’ blue eyes widen in surprise, as she glances down at a name faded with time in the old-fashioned ledger book. ‘Ofcourse Mr. Odinsson. We have Mr. Stark’s reservation for two. Right this way please.’

Majestic as any queen, and quite possibly better schooled, the hostess leads Loki to what is obviously one of the better tables in the place, with an unobstructed view of the harbor, and elegantly carved screen offering seclusion from the ‘common’ eyes of his fellow patrons, for which Loki is immediately grateful, as his knees and nerve give out the second he takes his seat.

Within moments a waiter in gold and crimson arrives at his elbow, deftly filling the crystal flute, before Loki has even a chance to decline. As the hour, and the hour following it drags slowly by, he’s more grateful for the distracting props of glass and liquor than he ever thought possible. The surreptitious looks he receives from the waiters pausing to refill his glass, slowly progress from evaluating and inquisitive to merely curious and finally downright sympathetic. It’s the sympathy that he cannot tolerate. *No one* has the right to feel sorry for Loki Odinsson. No one.

Regal head held high, shoulders thrown back, Loki walks out of the restaurant ignoring the less than quiet whispers following him out the door.

That night Tony is surprised to receive a letter on parchment grown more familiar than his own skin. He had hoped that Loki would too otherwise occupied to be writing his past-self letters. Still, with some concern he breaks open the seal, reading.

‘Tony,’ the letter starts almost formally, ‘I have no easy way to say this, nor, out of respect for you, will I attempt to. It’s over. This, us, whatever name that you would give it, has drawn to its eventual conclusion. 

I cannot begin to tell you how much I have enjoyed our correspondence over these nearly, past near two years, but all good things must, alas, come to an end.

I wish you all the happiness that you deserve, and the best in all things. 

I remain, respectfully yours,  
Loki Odinsson’

Tony finds himself on the ground, without remembering quite how he got there. ‘Loki,’ he writes, in desperation tearing through the paper ‘Why? Tell me why? What have I done? Please.. Loki’

‘You didn’t come. You've met another, or possibly over the course of two years simply changed your mind. What ever your reasons, you were not there.’ And Tony’s metal heart grows colder in his chest. How could he.. what could have possibly happened that he would not meet this man.

‘It’s two years,’ he writes ‘Give me another chance! Name another place – I’ll be there!’

‘You have been a wonder in my life Tony. You gave me something magical in which to believe, when I was very desperately in need of having my faith in miracles restored. Some things are simply not meant to be, and we, clearly are one of those things.

I ask that you please not seek me out – either in your time, or later on, in mine. Let us part now as we started – as good friends, and casual correspondents.

L.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been pointed out to me, that if someone were to carefully go through and map out the months and timelines in this fic - *someone* clearly has - the months don't *quite* measure up.
> 
> The only thing that I can say is, yes, I have played a bit fast and loose with the times, and months, the blooming seasons of roses and (now) the 'good' season for lobster. But then I had admitted early on that I know nothing about roses, less about writing and well lobster is something that's in season year round, right? Apparently not.
> 
> You, my gentle readers, will just have to forgive me this, along with my other myriad of faults.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK.. unusual warning time - you ready for it? 
> 
> There is a *cliffhanger* at the end of this chapter.
> 
> The ONLY reason that I'm telling you this my dears, is because the next few days are going to be chaotically busy, and I can't guaratee that I will be able to update prior to Sunday or possibly even next week. Being a fangirl myself, and in spite of understanding that we all have lives outside of AO3, I can totally relate to the pain being left hanging for days at a time... 
> 
> If you proceed - and I hope my darlings, that you do - you have been warned.

The months go by and Loki makes a concerted, concentrated effort to *not* think about Tony Stark. There will be no reminiscing of how Tony’s laugh reflected in his eyes, or how his smile touched something deep inside Loki’s heart. He will *not*, under any circumstances recall how Tony looked and tasted, coming gloriously apart under his hands and mouth. He will not dream about their one, sudden, stolen night together, and how *right* and perfect Tony felt moving under and above him, the gentle brush of fingers on his face, and Tony’s lips in his hair. Loki will not be tempted by the thick stack of carefully tied letters, buried deep at the bottom of his one keepsake box. Containing a few small mementos that less-than-sentimental Loki has chosen to keep over the years - all of Hel's letters, a handful of baseball cards, one faded photo of his mother, the box holds his most precious posessions and is the only thing that Loki would make effort to save from a fire. Under no circumstances will he take out the precious pages, written on plain lined paper, and inhale deeply Tony’s unique scent – alike and at the same time completely different from cinnamon and machine oil.

He begins to date once more – if one can call quickly devoured dinners, sparse conversation and a faceless stream of partners who are gone before morning, dating. Loki only 'dates' blondes now. Long legged, long-haired, blue-eyed, mostly brainless blondes. He stays away from witty, dark-eyed brunettes. He stays away from men. He stops reading scientific magazines that might make unexpected mention of the personal life of one Mr. Anthony (Tony) Stark. He works a great deal, writes to Hel, keeps up his other, regular correspondences, and on weekends escorts blondes to a club (or bar, or restaurant). A date once asked why he has never taken her to the Pomme D’Or, given Loki's love of exclusivity in all things, but love, it seemed the perfect place. They never made to dinner. Instead Loki took her home, where he proceeded to brutally fuck her against the wall of his loft, utill she was hoarse from screaming and near blind from orgasms, but never saw, or returned her calls again. 

His current partner, a statuesque, frosty-eyed, former ‘Ms. Finland’, in bare feet stands just a hair taller than Loki’s own not inconsiderable height, significantly taller when in heels, succeeds in finally dragging Loki to one of the charity fund-raisers that she was often called on to cover for her employer. Loki didn’t particularly care for charity events, or for that matter what Maija did with her time outside his bed, but the filthy string of promises whispered in the back of their limo, persuades Loki to generocity. And in the event, that the lunch-time event proves to be the bore he already expects it to be, he can always make up the loss of entertainment from Maija silken hide. Catching sight of his cool, predatory smile of anticipation, the former model shudders and swallows convulsivly, but notably does not remove her hand from Loki’s inner thigh.

The hotel is packed with glitterati, those with them, and those who wanted to be with them. Loki steps out first, expertly drawing Maija out after, the silver sheath of her dress parting artfully over one flawless leg, reflecting the flashes of cameras around them. Dressed considerably simpler, if every bit as elegantly, after escorting the former ‘Ms. Finland’ through the glass doors, Loki leaves her to her own devices. Side-stepping the photographers with practiced skill, Loki silently fades into the background – after all *he* was not here to see, and did not particularly care to be seen.

An hour later Maija was still busy ‘working’, and for Loki the party was growing increasingly dull. He finally spots an attractive man – a potential conquest at any other time – standing to one side, back partially blocking a display of event posters.

‘It’s quite the party,’ Loki offered by way of greeting, gesturing with his champagne flute.

‘Yes, it certainly is’ the man agreed, smile bright and engrossing against the rich chocolate of his skin. ‘James Rhodes, ‘Rhody’ to my friends,’ the man introduced himself, holding out his hand.

‘Professor Loki Odinsson, Loki to my friends. A pleasure to meet you James,’ Loki returned the smile and handshake, the barest inflection to his voice and tilt of an eyebrow gaging interest. After all, a man could not live wholly by blondes alone.

‘Oh no please, call me Rhody!’ the handshake is held a moment longer than entirely necessary. So the interest was there after all, and Maija had been starting to grow a bit… predictable. Clearly it was time for a change.

‘Are you here alone Rhody?’ Loki inquires with an exaggerated casualness – really, why waste time on small-talk?

The shorter man chuckles quietly, returning Loki’s casual smile ‘For the moment, yes, though things are looking up. May I inquire what brings you here? Are you one of the researchers working with the foundation?’

Loki laughs, deliberately laying a hand on Rhody’s arm, nodding to himself in approval of the play of firm muscle under his palm ‘Though I realize that it may thoroughly impact my chances, I must admit that I actually know *nothing* of your cause – I was brought here by a.. friend’ he finishes after a brief pause ‘and she told me nothing of where I was going prior to our arrival. I’d be delighted however to have you... tell me about it?’

Rhody catches the barely discernable pause, laughing, and oh Loki is such a fool when it comes to clever men, and maybe he should have stuck with stupid women, but it’s too late now, and Rhody's hand is on his shoulder and he's saying something about the foundation having been started by his best friend… ‘…couple of years now, and we’re gaining attention on a National scale. We’ve done some very good work, particularly with kids – and if you know anything about organ donors, you’ll know how difficult it is to find size-appropriate donors for children.’

‘I’m sorry, I.. I got distracted for a moment, you were saying.. what?’ Loki interrupts charmingly, uncharacteristically at a sudden loss for words.

Rhody smiles patiently, it’s a speech he’s given repeatedly time and time again, to far less attractive company. ‘I was just describing the type of work the ‘Tin Man Foundation’ has accomplished over these past two years. We specialize in cyber-prosthetic limbs for children, and are currently working on furthering our research into cybernetic organs – are you alright Loki? You’ve just gone very pale.’

Loki runs his tongue over bloodless lips gone bone dry, ‘Yes, yes I am thank you for asking. The champagne must just going to my head. ‘Tin Man’.. it’s an unusual name.. may I.. may I ask of its origins?’

‘Ofcourse!’ Rhody laughs, pleased that Loki is finally showing interest, or just relieved that he isn’t going to pass out. ‘It’s something that Tony Stark, the founder had thought of, said it had held a special significance for him, and are you quite certain that you are alright?’

‘Tony.. is he here? Today I mean? We'd met once, a long time ago, and I’d.. I’d like to pay my respects if I could,’ Loki asks, feeling his throat already constrict in dreadful anticipation of the answer. If Tony was here, he would have seen him. Felt him.

‘Tony is always with us,’ Rhody answers fondly, gesturing to the display behind him, stepping aside allowing Loki to see the posters – a smiling, laughing Tony, shaking the brass hand of a little girl, no older than 5, accepting what had to have been a significant cheque from a wealthy contributor, finally, a formal portrait framed in black satin. 'At least in spirit. May I ask how you had met him? I could've sworn that I'd known most of Tony's friends,’ Rhody says. ‘Though I suppose when it come to Tony, there’s only *so* well that anyone could’ve ever really known him… we had a saying once -You know Tony's a Stark because he'll sooner give you money than personal details.’

Loki nods blindly, thinking, remembering the man who adopted a stray kitten and named it after a trickster fox, the man who gave him details of his life that he’d shared with no one else, who planted roses because he knew that Loki loved them. Cried under his kiss, and gave himself freely without sharing the burden of an impossible truth. The man with whom, Loki was only just then realizing, he had fallen unforgivably, hopelessly and undeniably in love.

‘How.. how did he die, may I ask?’ No pretence at casualness now, Loki is ready to beg if need be, and Rhody sees it, the naked, unguarded pain in his green eyes.

‘Tony?' he asks gently 'How else? Saving children. There was a school trip – some sort of science club sponsored by the foundation, young geniuses or some such, I've never really wanted to get the details…. Tony insisted on tagging along, said there was someone at the university he had to see, so he might as well go along – and you know Tony, once he sets his mind to something, there’s no changing it – and there was an explosion in a lab. A gasline was imporoperly sealed. Chemicals when up in smoke. A couple of kids got trapped.. and before the fire crews could arrive Tony kept running in, pulling them out. They said he'd inhaled too much smoke, too many chemicals. Died on the scene. Funn thing is, that mechanical heart of his kept going. Made great strides for his foundation. I’m sorry. I thought that all his friends knew.’

‘I.. We.. we haven't been close in some time. We wrote to one another once, but have since fallen out of touch…’ Loki begins, and watches Rhody’s eyes grow wide in sudden realization.

‘*You*.. you’re the one he wrote to. He was supposed to meet you he said, but something happened… the meeting fell through and you asked him to not keep writing. He was some kind of crazy for you.. I haven’t seen him go that nuts for someone since Pepper walked out on him.‘

‘When.’ Loki interrupts, cutting across Rhody’s commentary on Tony’s past life. ‘When did he die?’

‘Oh.. today actually. Well.. two years ago today, so it’s an anniversary of a sort, it’s why the event’s being held– where are you going?!’ Rhody calls out to Loki’s departing back, but the taller man is already running and doesn’t hear him.

He has time. He has two years. If he can just make it.. if Tony checks the mail.. if Tony opens the letter.. if he can catch a cab and get back to that damnable brownstone in time.. if.. if…. 

‘Tony,’ he writes on the first piece of scrap he’s able to find, hand cramping with speed, as the cabby spurred on by the $100 and promise of a second if he can get across town in the next 10 minutes, not realizing that Loki would gladly pay five, ten times as much, dodges in and out of mid-afternoon traffic. ‘The science fair. The school trip. Don’t go. Please. Don’t go to the lab. Stay away from the University. For two years, stay away from me. It was you. You were the one who died that day… It’s why you weren’t there. Please Tony. For me. For us. Don’t go. Wait. Wait just two years more. Please. I’m at your door – at the brownstone. I’m waiting. I love you. Loki.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I commend your bravery for having made it this far... and now I can tell you that the last chapter - the Epilogue really - will hopefully be up in several days.
> 
> As with all things, it's written in my head, I just need to transfer it to print, so please do, bear with me.


	10. Epilogue

*A couple of years later*

Every year Loki brings roses. It seems appropriate somehow, seeing as that was how things first started – with roses. White roses, simple and clean, unassuming against the uncluttered elegance of the black marble. The headstone required no additional ornamentation, no weeping angels or false embellishments, just the name, carefully etched in a precise, silver script - 'Stark'. Those who knew, would know what to look for, and those who did not.. well they then hardly now, mattered, did they?

'I'll make him happy,' Loki was saying. 'I will aim to, in any case. He is a good man, Tony, he deserves to be happy, and after everything that has come before, I think that I am also due a momentary glimpse of joy.'

Loki takes a deep breath, uncertain if he should continue, or leave things where they stand, deciding at the last moment that this quiet, unassuming graveyard was no place for secrets. 'He asked me to marry him. Said that we could move to Canada if need be, but that he would make an honest man of me once and for all... and I.. for all the world though I feel that I am unworthy, I have said yes.

Hel will be here in less than a week, we will hold the ceremony then, though I am as yet uncertain where. I would very much like her to be there, to see her Father marry the man he loves, and and so too would he.

'I...' Loki looks away for a moment, cursing the sun. It feels like a betrayal, this bright and sunny day, untroubled by so much as a cloud. It should be raining he thinks, and for a brief moment, actually considers performing a madman's version of the rain dance, wondering at the reaction that he might get from some of his fellow mourners, looking somehow out of place, in their long and somber clothes, on this very bright and chipper September morning. The idea itself seems so utterly ludicrous that Loki snorts, the quiet sound none the less earning him a glare from the priest, reading quietly on a bench nearby.

Loki coughs into his hand by way of apology and almost turns to leave, when a familiar hand slides up his arm, landing eventually on his shoulder.

'If you are quite finished scandalizing the local clergy, perhaps we could depart? Hel's room still needs to be re-painted, and you promised that you would help this time.'

Loki turns, staring deeply into the dark eyes that are all the light he will ever need. 'As I recall, the last time I helped paint, you said that I was a failure as both husband and father, and that I should never be again permitted near a brush so long as both did live. I should tell you, that I plan on including that into my vows.'

'True,' his beloved agrees, 'but that was before I saw you edging the new rose-beds with Gaston, and realized that if you could be so steady with a trowel in hand, your sloppy work on the ceiling was the result of deliberate laziness and avoidence, and not a lack of skill. Nice try though..' he reaches up slightly, breath tickling Loki's ear 'I'll give you an 'A' for effort.'

Loki closes his eyes, barely holding back the a groan, a helpless shudder going through him all the same. 'Now who's scandalizing the clergy? You know, if we leave now, we should be home just as Gaston is leaving.. that will give us the entire rest of the afternoon before we need to start painting...'

'Oh?..' A dark eyebrow arches knowingly, 'and what is it that you propose that we do to fill the rest of this, vacant afternoon of ours?' 'Oh.. I'm sure I will eventually, think of something,' Loki promises, nibbling his way down the strong neck to the base of the collarbone, barely visible at the opening of the dark, formal shirt.'

'By the way, would now be a good time to tell you that Hel called..'

'Hrmmm?... What?! Hel? When?'

'Hel? Your daughter? Slender blonde girl? About yeah tall?' he holds his hand just shy of shoulder height. 'Considered by many who have met her, to have inherited her genius from both genetic sides of her parentage, though having lived several years with her Father, I'm beginning to wonder...'

Loki takes hold of the hand, musing again on the perfect contrast they make, light against dark. Wondering how he could have spent a lifetime without this man at his side.

'Yes, yes my daughter.. she called, is everything allright? She is still coming? Has something happened? Has she.. has she changed her mind? About visiting? About.. about us?' Loki swallows his worry. It's an old argument they've been having, telling Hel. Not telling Hel... At the end of it all, Hel resolved the problem with her usual lack of tact - inherited from her Mother - by sitting them both down and telling them how happy she was that her Father was finally happy, and that she'd figured it out the very first time she ever saw them together. Clever Hel always did take after her Father.

'Oh she's coming allright.. but tomorrow, rather than next week. She said something about wanting to help plan the wedding, rather than just being one of the guests.'

'She.. tomorrow?.. Plan.. plan the wedding?' few things could leave Loki quite so speechless as the machinations of his brilliant daughter. 'And you were going to tell me this when, precisely?'

'Oh I don't know.. sometime after getting you naked, and repainting her room?'

'You drive me mad, you know that? You are an exasperating, infuriating, vexing - '

His lover silences him with a kiss. An almost chaste, they are in a cemetery after all, almost closed mouth, kiss that still manages to convey all that he will do once he has succeeded in getting Loki naked, and the priest is still watching, though perhaps not quite as condemning as before.

'I love you too.. now if you're done chatting up my Father...'

Loki sighs, looking down in wonder at the miracle fate has given him.

'I think so. Just telling him about the wedding... I thought he should know. I'm finished now I think. Lets go home, Tony.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. Curtain call. Thank you everyone who has taken this rather remarkable journey with me. I have enjoyed it far more than anyone should honestly have a right to enjoy something that is both (mostly) free and (mostly) legal.
> 
> Perhaps we'll meet again sometime.
> 
> Kytt

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first work of fiction which I am 'publicly' sharing in several decades, and I apologize for my extreme rustiness.
> 
> Having said that however, I would none-the-less like to humbly and sincerely dedicate this initial offering to my fellow fan-writers, who have and continue to inspire us to create worlds out of nothing.


End file.
